


Put Your Head On My Shoulder

by lilyrabies



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F, Fluff without Plot, foxxay - Freeform, goodeday, raulson - Freeform, this is senseless fluff idk what to tell you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21677602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyrabies/pseuds/lilyrabies
Summary: Hank’s visit leaves Cordelia feeling distraught and near tears; Misty offers her some comfort.
Relationships: Misty Day/Cordelia Foxx | Cordelia Goode
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	Put Your Head On My Shoulder

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short bit of fluff I rustled up for the twitter fam. The title is from the Paul Anka song of the same name. You can find me on twitter @lily_rabies and on tumblr @rabiesfemme. Feel free to send prompts/requests my way; enjoy!

Cordelia’s shoulders sag as Hank storms out of the greenhouse, the force of the slamming door enough to rattle the nearest flowerpots and tighten Misty’s jaw in a defensive reflex.  _ Just in case he comes back, just in case he thinks he has more to say… _ The moment passes though, and her blue gaze finds the older witch’s face, searching now for something to tell her, some word of comfort that can ease the tears welling in mismatched eyes.  _ I wonder what they looked like before, when they were just hers and no one else’s. _

Gingerly, a calloused hand covers the one propped knuckle white against the work table, soothing the tension from its grip. Cordelia sniffles, taking a slow, shaky breath as she looks at the rings sitting cool against her flesh, the way that soil cakes their fingers as she allows them to intertwine. It’s grounding, calming, the way that Misty’s skin rests so easily against her own. She can feel the electric buzz of their magic even through the slight touch.

“He’s gone, Cher,” Misty drawls, her thumb rubbing circles into the other’s palm as she takes their joined hands into both of her own. She offers a gentle smile that doesn’t quite chase the concern from her brow. “He ain’t coming back. Not today.”  _ That’s a promise. _

The corners of Cordelia’s lips twitch upward, and she wipes her tears in the crook of her elbow before Misty catches her by surprise and wraps her into a tight hug. It feels... _safe_. Like home. She realizes too late that she doesn’t want it to end as the swamp witch’s arms begin to sag, and she only holds on tighter, face pressed to the dip of her shoulder. “Thank you…” A soft hand strokes the back of her hair and the last of her resolve crumbles, tears overflowing at last. Her fingers knot themselves in the fabric of Misty’s cardigan, and she just lets loose, sobbing through years of marriage, decades of failure, every insecurity that makes its way through her mind as she collapses into the touch, starved for a sympathetic ear. And Misty holds her, and Misty hums, and Misty listens.

She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, her blubbering and Misty carding through her blonde locks, but when she’s all cried out at last, eyes puffy and avoidant, she pulls back with an embarrassed clearing of her throat. It tastes raw, a bitter iron tang on the back of her tongue. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Nuh-uh. Don’t,” Misty murmurs, cutting the apology short as one knuckle clears the moisture from Cordelia’s cheeks. “It ain’t healthy to keep everything bottled up like that, Miss Delia.”

A nervous chuckle, short and soft, leaves Cordelia’s lips, and she chances a glance in her counterpart’s direction, furtive and shy. “After all of that, I think it’s safe to say that you don’t have to call me ‘Miss.’”

“Delia, then.” The grin that spreads across the taller woman’s features is nothing short of luminous, and Cordelia finds it unexpectedly infectious. It gives her butterflies. The hand that frames her flushing cheek? That gives her a whole swarm. “I want you to listen here… It seems to me that people haven’t treated you kindly. But it’s their loss, Cher. You’re worth the whole damn pack of ‘em put together.”

_ Oh. _

She’s staring up at her from beneath her lashes as heat creeps its way further up her neck, head leaning into Misty’s touch like an eager cat.  _ She’s so kind… So kind, so thoughtful, so talented, so beautiful… _ “Misty…”

“Mh?”

Swallowing thickly, Cordelia doesn’t reply, merely turns to press a chaste kiss into the crux of the other’s palm, eyes slipping shut as though to hide from rejection before it can even rear its head. Instead, fingers find her jaw, a thumb ghosting over her lips, and before she can open her eyes again, Misty’s mouth is melting tenderly against her own.

“I mean it, Delia. The whole damn pack. They don’t hold a candle to you, darlin’.” The sentiment is murmured against her temple.

Cordelia sighs again, and this time it’s breathless, dizzy with a giddiness that has her heart fluttering against her ribs as they rest forehead to forehead, lost together in the private world of the greenhouse. Sheepishly, she withdraws, her back resting against the table, fingers tracing the lines of Misty’s hand, turning it over in her own to study the hodgepodge of rings. “I don’t know what to say,” she admits quietly, absently chewing the skin of her lower lip.

“Then don’t say anythin’ at all,” Misty breathes, voice low and husky as she joins the shorter blonde, pressing side by side. She nods toward the window opposite them, warmth filling her chest at the gentle weight of Cordelia’s head lolling against her shoulder. “Just watch the sunset with me. It’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna be alright.”


End file.
